Chapter One

Midway, Mirel Islands

The Holding of Midway sprawled lazily over the highest hill on the island of the same name and had one of the most unusual views Elduin had ever enjoyed in the embrace of civilization. From his vantage in the rooftop garden of Lord Adhorsé’s manor – palace was a more accurate term, he mused – Elduin could turn in a circle and see glittering blue water in every direction, distant, but within sight beyond the land that tumbled, folded and rolled away beneath the lofty Holding. It was the only aspect of the Sea of Stars Gathering that he eagerly anticipated. His wife’s Holding of Starcove was beautiful and it was home, but Midway Island had a raw, untamable appeal that Starcove’s enduring gentleness had never offered.

Even the garden was filled with native shrubbery, hardy junipers and gold-green grasses that crouched as comfortably on the roof as across the rest of this wild island. He brought his perusal a little closer to admire the driftwood railings. Gnarled root systems spanned between posts of twisted, weathered logs and the handrails had been worn smooth by sand, surf and the artistic touch of craftsmen. It was among the most true-to-nature architecture he’d ever beheld, and being the husband of a Cityholder, he’d seen a wide array of gorgeous creations across Vanor and the nearer parts of Suranor.

Sensing he was no longer alone, Elduin shifted his gaze to the door of the stair tower. His wife stepped outside and he took a moment to thank the strong, gusting wind for pulling her sky-blue formal robes so flatteringly around her. Half her dark hair was piled loosely at the back of her head. Delicate tendrils framed her pointed ears and finely-featured face. Five decades of marriage to her had only strengthened his appreciation for her beauty and a playful smile lifted his lips when she caught him admiring her.

Thank you, Hiranor, for the length of life and youth you gave us so we might spend centuries in such exquisite happiness.

“I suppose I should be grateful I even compare with this view in your eyes,” she teased as she reached him.

“What view?” he asked, slipping his arm around her trim waist and tucking her tightly against him. He kissed her soundly, pleased by her happy sigh. “My jewel,” he murmured. “The most precious gift ever given to me.”

“You sentimental old fool,” she whispered. “Keep purring such sweet words and we might miss the start of the Gathering.”

“What a pity that would be,” he replied and stroked his hand down her face. He bent his head to kiss her neck, inhaling the sweet fragrance of her, wanting to abandon all decorum and take her downstairs to their suite. Making love to his wife would be infinitely preferable to standing behind her, ignored, while she engaged in heated trade negotiations. He wondered if she realized how irresistible he found her as she unleashed that Lurelen-sharp intelligence on her fellow Holders. It wasn’t hard to recall their courtship years, back before the Holder’s coronet had become Mirythil’s, when Elduin had been told by many people who didn’t know her well to be gentle with his “dainty” Chosen. It still made him laugh; few words were farther from the truth of his wife. The top of her dark-maned head only reached his shoulder, but he knew from a wide variety of experiences that she was a fierce negotiator, ardent Lady Holder, and passionate lover. No, he mused, he would never dream of insulting his wife by calling her dainty.

“Lenruth is here,” she told him, interrupting his daydream. A frown creased her brow. “At last.”

“Celerion’s not with him, is he?” Elduin asked.

“No, surprisingly. I had thought Lenruth would drag him away from his training.”

“It’s the sort of thing he’d do. But Cel’s in the Tenth Year – even if it’s only his seventh. Not even Lenruth can interrupt him right now.”

Mirythil sighed again. “I know, but it would have been nice to see him.”

“I agree.” Elduin scowled at the sudden shadow that passed over his wife’s face. “I get the feeling it isn’t just your maternal fondness for him that makes you say that. I can see it in your eyes, Miry.”

“See what?”

“Put the Holder away,” he replied. “Celerion will have enough to deal with once he passes his Weaponsmaster Trials without you dumping that load on him prematurely.”

“Prematurely? Elduin, I’ve been waiting to do it since he turned eighteen! But I wasn’t sure he was ready yet.”

“He probably wasn’t,” Elduin said soothingly. “Weapons training is strenuous, to say the least, and the one rest day a week an apprentice is allowed is never enough to truly rest. I doubt Celerion even had a rest day until he left to be Fostered in Stormcove. You made the right decision not to add any more stress to his life so soon. So, I say again. Put the Holder aside. Or I’ll go back to my view.”

To fully chase the politician away, Elduin again yanked her tightly to him and went after her neck like a starving man. Her weight shifted more fully into his supporting arms, eagerly submitting, but he did not relent. He slid his hands under her elegant rump and hoisted her off the ground. Her long, firm legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as they would around a galloping horse, her robes hitched up past her knees. A fit of laughter rippled tantalizingly through her body. She knitted her fingers behind his head and took his mouth with the skill of a practiced loniran. Stars above, but his woman was an all-consuming distraction.

“Mirythil, keep it up and I’m going to take you up on your offer.”

“Elduin, my love,” she said breathlessly. “Don’t tempt me. You know I’d much rather spend the afternoon with you between those beautiful satin sheets Adhorsé is so fond of, but we can’t miss––”

Mirythil’s objection was lost as he covered her mouth with another kiss. Elduin sat down on the nearby bench with his wife still straddling him, hiding them from view of the stair tower door. The kiss was not one of passion, but a command for silence. Bless her, he thought, because she recognized his intent and sat stone-still in his lap. When he released her lips, she said nothing, but her eyes asked him what he’d sensed. He only shook his head. It was not fear of embarrassment at being caught that had him seeking secrecy. His senses tingled with conspiracy, effectively vanquishing all thoughts of seducing his wife. Well, most thoughts.

It was several moments before he heard voices. There were two of them, a man and a woman he recognized to be Lord Nithran of Norn and Lady Cara of Monorel. Mirythil scowled and he might have smiled at her obvious dislike of the two Holders if he hadn’t been concentrating so intensely on what they were saying.

“I’m sick of it!” Cara was shouting. “He just waltzes in here – in to every Gathering – like he owns us all!”

Elduin could guess to whom she referred and quite agreed.

“Oh, come now, Cara, every one knows by now that you and I were lovers. I don’t see why you’re so upset.”

“You think I’m upset about that? Come off it, Nithran! An affair between two Holders may be frowned upon, but it’s not illegal. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then what? You may be a greedy little bitch––”

Slap.

“––but you’ve somehow managed to keep your nose clean,” Nithran continued, as though he hadn’t just been hit by his former lover. “What can Lenruth possibly have to blackmail you with?”

Cara was silent for a moment. Elduin found no fault in Nithran’s argument and wondered as the Lord of Norn did what Cara had done that would make her rail against Lenruth’s devices. She was, perhaps, not always as careful in choosing her bed partners as she should be and her brazen flirtatiousness made his skin crawl – having been on the receiving end once or twice, he could too well vouch that married men were not outside her notice – but she worked hard for her people. Elduin rummaged through his memories of her like a whirlwind through a cluttered study, but could not find a single rule she had broken, bribe she had taken, or contract she had reneged on without legal justification. In fact, Lady Cara Féyanor was always careful to adhere tightly to written law.

“Can you think of nothing in my past?” she demanded.

It was a while before Nithran answered with a simple, “Oh.”

“Now you see it?”

“Yes, but how did he find out?”

“I don’t know!”

There was another pause. Elduin glanced at Mirythil, who was staring at the dark juniper bushes with such concentration she might have been trying to make them vanish with the sheer force of her thought. He could feel the tension in her slight body; her legs were uncomfortably tight around his waist and her fingers had curled into fists, pulling a little painfully on his hair. He could easily imagine what thoughts were running through her mind.

“It isn’t the end of the world, Cara,” Nithran said.

“It will be if anyone finds out my Lord father wasn’t my father! I’d lose Monorel. And I don’t know how Lenruth found out, but…. Do you know what concession he demanded?”

“I’m not sure I want to know.”

“He wants Monorel to pay for a road and pass over the Silver Mountains! Do you know how much that would cost?”

“More than Monorel has,” Mirythil whispered to her husband half a moment before Nithran voiced the same words. “There’s no clear path over those mountains between Lenruth’s Holding and Cara’s.”

Elduin nodded in agreement.

“I’m ruined, Nithran! You see what he’s trying to do, don’t you? He’s taking over Vaneryn one Holding at a time. Before long, the whole of Vanor will be his. I’ll lose Monorel no matter what I do. That son of Haradur! If I refuse, he’ll tell the world that my sire was a servant of my father’s house and I will lose any right to my Holding. If I obey, Monorel will be so far in debt that his Lordship of River End will own the entire Holding. I can’t see a way out of this corner.”

Neither could Elduin, and though he disliked Cara on general principles, Vanor as a whole would be better off if Lenruth didn’t own more than his own Holding. Their nation would be better off if he owned nothing at all, but as of yet, no clear way to dislodge him had presented itself.

“There is something…. I don’t know if it will help you, but it might.”

“Out with it, Nithran! Anything that might help me keep Monorel….”

“I received a letter from a cousin of mine who lives in Laketown. Seems he heard something rather interesting from a Suranoran friend of his who guards caravans between Tengalin and Hotsprings.”

“Nithran––”

“There is a Vanoran man in the town of Tenan, just a day’s ride north of Hotsprings, with the pale blond hair and dark blue eyes of Vaneryn. I am told he bears a striking resemblance to the Elhon line and goes by the name Elethor Elriyan.”

Elduin’s heart jerked sickeningly in his chest and Mirythil gripped him so tightly he nearly grunted. Elethor, meaning “Magical Fire of a Star”, was not a common name and one generally reserved for a descendant of a Star House. A man of common blood would have been Ilethor, named for a lesser star.

“Elethor?” All concern for her precious station in life had slipped from Cara’s voice, replaced by smug curiosity. “Not exactly subtle. But I don’t see how it helps me.”

“If Elethor Elhon is alive, I’m quite sure Lenruth would wish to keep him well clear of Celerion. The boy hates Lenruth enough without adding that little secret to the mixing bowl. To have been kept away from the only other surviving member of his mother’s family for the whole of his life… I imagine Celerion might do something unexpectedly vengeful.”

Cara snorted. “That’ll be the day. Celerion Erynhir doesn’t have a vengeful bone in him.”

“Every man has a breaking point. Some are simply much harder to reach.”

“Maybe. I guess the decision, then, is which road to take. Will contacting Elethor benefit us more, or will informing Lenruth about it gain us better favor?”

“The latter, I imagine. You’ve no idea what will happen if you bring Elethor in to it – if the man truly is Elethor Elhon.”

“You have a point, my dear friend.” Cara paused for a moment, then laughed. “Lenruth would be quite glad to keep that bit of information silenced. But it does remind me of something. Do you recall the death of Elethor’s father, Cenderyn?”

“Yes.”

“My handmaid mentioned something peculiar the other day, something I’d forgotten. Do you remember the confusion about where and how he died?”

“What are you getting at, Cara?”

“What if Lenruth had anything to do with it? If memory serves, the first anyone heard of it, Cenderyn was killed west of Laketown. Inside Vanor. What if he wasn’t killed by Yrangese at all?”

“Are you suggesting Lenruth would arrange to have his wife’s father killed?”

Elduin gasped in pain when his wife yanked on his hair in her outrage, jerking his head back hard enough to make his neck and skull cry out.

“What was that?” Cara hissed. “You said there’d be no one out here, Nithran!”

“I didn’t think––”

“Obviously. It came from the bushes over by the rail there.”

Elduin’s mind raced and the only cover he could think of was marital flirtation. He lifted his face to kiss Mirythil to find her mouth already at his own. Again thanking the Lady of the Moon for his wife’s intelligence and apparent ability to read his mind, Elduin slid his hands from her knees up her thighs and grabbed her firmly by the waist. He pulled her deeper into his lap, aroused despite the current circumstances. Mirythil’s girlish titter was genuine.

“El, you brute!” she laughed. “We don’t have time before the gathering!”

“I’ll make it fast,” he promised.

Cara and Nithran burst through the bushes then and Mirythil let out a believable squeal of startlement.

“Oh, Lady Mirythil. Lord Elduin,” Nithran said by way of greeting. “We didn’t realize you were out here. I apologize for the… interruption.”

“Beautiful boots,” Cara remarked.

“Thank you,” Mirythil replied shamelessly. “I suppose I could have found a more appropriate way of showing them off. Come along, dear,” she said to her husband and made to disentangle herself. “We should probably be heading downstairs to finish getting ready.”

Elduin held her in place. “You’re not going anywhere just yet.”

Mirythil’s silky cheeks bloomed with rose. Even the infamously jaded Cara looked abashed. Nithran’s usually dour face lifted in a knowing smile of sympathy.

“We’ll leave you in peace,” the Lord of Norn said. Taking Cara’s hand around his arm, he directed her toward the door.

When they heard the door close, Mirythil again tried to stand. Elduin didn’t release her. “I wasn’t joking.”

She had the audacity to smirk. “I can tell.” She leaned forward to kiss him, which did nothing to help the situation. “I’m sorry, my love. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But that makes me angry.”

“So I know.” Elduin reached back to massage the back of his neck. “If Elethor is still alive…. But how? And why hasn’t he come forward? And what about Cenderyn? No, don’t try to answer that. We’ll worry about it later, after the Gathering. In the meantime, you owe me, Mirythil.”

Elduin stood and set her gently on her feet. She smoothed her hands over her robes to flatten the wrinkles that had gathered in the shimmering satin.

“I’m dressed for the Gathering, Elduin. I’d have to re-arrange my hair.”

“I don’t care.”

“Elduin––”

“You owe me,” he repeated.

She grinned. “I love it when you don’t give in. I’ll race you to the bedchamber, if you think you can make it. We don’t have much time, so I don’t want to be interrupted again.”

She took off at a trot with laughter trailing behind her. Elduin briefly wondered what they’d do with what they’d overheard, then shoved it aside and chased after her.

Stormcove, Serenor

“You got lucky and you know it. You shouldn’t have won that battle.”

“You made mistakes, Manilar. Stupid mistakes. I simply took advantage of them. If it appeases you to call my actions luck, by all means, do so.”

“You’re a fraud, Celerion, hiding behind the pretense of nobility.”

He’d been called a lot of things by those who disliked or envied him, but a fraud wasn’t among them. Celerion narrowed his eyes in remembrance as he massaged oil into the leather straps of his quiver. He had long since lost track of how many times the Lord-heir of Norn had tried to goad him into a fight in the year they’d both spent Fostered with the Holding Guard of Stormcove. Manilar was nearly four years his senior and already considered a fully-grown adult at the age of twenty-eight. Celerion had thought – hoped – that reaching his majority would take the edge off Manilar’s need to prove himself better than the Lord-heir of neighboring River End. Clearly, his wish had gone unanswered.

They had been pitted against each other in the morning’s field tactics exercise, each leading a group of forty men. Manilar had shown a talent for this sort of warfare over the past year, but his performance today had been less than worthy of his reputation. The maneuvers used on a wide-open plain were not yet as instinctive as Celerion would have liked and he had anticipated the opportunity to face the apprentice who was considered to be the best open-field tactician in their Year. He had ridden away from the field no less sure of himself and severely disappointed by the lack of effort it had taken to flank and divide Manilar’s force.

And he calls me a fraud, Celerion thought as he set the straps aside and reached for another piece of tack to clean and oil.

Manilar had taken his insults one step farther then, and accused Celerion – with both their Masters, Captain Haleri and Commander Gwarfiron close enough to hear – of being too afraid to fight him in a challenge match.

“Restraint is not cowardice,” Halasen had remarked in disgust. “If you’d paid half as much attention to that lesson as Celerion has, you would have already fought for your right to the title of Weaponsmaster.”

Red-faced with what Celerion suspected was a combination of rage and embarrassment, Manilar had smartly decided to leave with a little pride still intact. Manilar’s Master, Yanarion, had muttered something to Halasen about the comment being a little unfair, then followed after his apprentice.

That had been more than an hour ago, Celerion realized, glancing up from his work. The sun had shifted noticeably westward from its zenith, coaxing a few shadows from the summer-gilded landscape around Stormcove. The midday respite was almost over and it would soon be time to rejoin the Guard for the afternoon’s drills. He stood, cringing at the complaints of his backside from sitting on the uncomfortable crate and took a moment to relax and enjoy the view. In the pleasant shade of the roof overhanging the corral behind the Guard’s stables, he had a splendid view of the treeless, rolling hills that stretched north all around the city of Stormcove.

The stables themselves, like the rest of the Holding Guard complex, were as beautiful as they were simple. The walls were planked with weather-silvered boards and offset by dark-stained trim. The stable floor and the walled courtyard at the front were paved with broad, flat flagstone in shades of gray, purple and red. The intricate vines he was accustomed to were absent here, as was the deep, emerald green of his home Region of Vaneryn. Rich amethyst was the color of Serenor and it accented the stormy shades of the wood and stone as well as the green set off the golden, twining wood of his home. They were so different, and yet just two pieces that made up the rainbow-hued puzzle of Vanor.

“It’s a bit strange to you, isn’t it?”

Captain Haleri joined him in the shade, his pale, gray-blue eyes narrowed against the glare of the brilliant afternoon. Celerion glanced over his companion’s lean, muscled frame, the mane of dark hair and most especially noted the angles of jaw, cheek, nose and brow. Those features were distinctly similar to both Commander Gwarfiron and Master Halasen. More startling was the resemblance to Cuivien, a servant in the Keep of River End who had taken a large role in Celerion’s raising. He had been too polite to ask and it was apparent in their tense silence on the matter that they knew of their shared blood and intended to keep it quiet.

“It’s different from Vaneryn, that’s certain,” Celerion replied at last. “But no less beautiful.”

“It was hard to me to adjust,” Haleri said, more to himself than Celerion. “I was only seven when I came to live with Gwarfiron. I was born in River End, you know.”

“I did know. The Commander told me.”

Haleri glanced at him, then looked away again. “How much have you figured out?”

“Enough that I’m glad the strain between you and Halasen has eased.”

The muscles in the older man’s jaws flexed. “I wish I knew why. He’s hiding something that’s a threat to me, I understand that much.”

“Are you still thinking about leaving Stormcove?”

The Captain nodded. “I’ve been thinking about leaving Vanor. I’m sure I can find work in Suranor.”

The unnerving squeals of a terrified horse cut through their conversation and Celerion jerked toward the stables. He broke into a run with Haleri close behind, knowing without a doubt that something or someone was attacking his stallion. Without pausing to consider what he might be facing, Celerion wrenched the stall door open. He caught the man’s arm just as the knotted rope snapped against the stallion’s neck. The gray reared and Celerion slammed the attacker against the wall just in time to save the bastard from Calel’s slashing hooves.

“Awé, Calel!” he bellowed at the horse.

The stallion stampeded out of the stall, but turned in the stable aisle, pawing at the bedding-strewn flagstone. He squealed again and tried to bite his attacker when Celerion dragged him from the stall. Other apprentices and Guardsmen, who had been working nearby, gathered around wearing varying expressions of shock and revulsion.

“Beating a horse is low, even for you, Manilar,” Haleri growled.

Commander Gwarfiron and Master Halasen arrived, quickly assessed the situation and began issuing orders. Those present were to gather all the Masters and apprentices and as many Guardsmen as could be found in the arena. Celerion released his hold on Manilar without being asked.

“See to your horse,” Haleri said unnecessarily. He took a fistful of Manilar’s tunic. “I’ll take him to his Master and bring them both to the arena for your challenge.”

Manilar snarled and tried to pull free of Haleri’s hold, to no avail. The Captain yanked harshly on his collar and the Lord-heir of Norn again lost his feet. Calel tried to follow, occasionally nipping at Manilar every time it seemed he might escape, so Celerion took the horse by the halter and led him back into the stall. Fury surged as he ran his hand along the soft, gray-white neck. Welts were already rising beneath the summer-sleek fur. Both Halasen and Gwarfiron inspected the stallion. Neither man said anything, but they were both furious.

Celerion used the concern for his stallion to put a firm clamp on his anger. He refused the help of a stableboy and groomed Calel himself. By the time the Guardsmen, Weapsonsmasters and apprentices had gathered in the stands an hour later, he was more than ready to calmly make his challenge. Lady Sela was in attendance, which he remembered was required because the combatants were Lord-heirs as wells as Weapons apprentices. Halasen stepped forward to call Manilar and his Master out. Yanarion was seething, though Celerion was unsure whom exactly his anger was directed at. Manilar’s arrogance was firmly in place, but his hair – darker gold than Celerion’s pale blond – was damp above his brow. Maybe he wasn’t quite as sure of himself as he wanted everyone to believe. No doubt Yanarion had lectured him on the stupidity of the act that had landed him in the arena.

“You wanted a challenge from me, Manilar,” Celerion said, his voice cold and steady. “You have it. Let’s see if you can stand up to it.”

“Wooden practice weapons only,” Yanarion demanded.

He was worried, Celerion decided, more than angry. “Fine,” he replied. It was just as well. There was less chance of injury that way and Celerion had no desire to inflict serious pain on his opponent. He wanted an outlet for his temper more than anything. “What shall it be, Manilar? Elhalans? Lurelen knives?”

Manilar opened his mouth, closed it, and glanced at Yanarion. His eyes glittered maliciously. Even now, standing before dozens of spectators who knew why Celerion had finally made the challenge many doubtlessly thought should have come about some time ago, the cockiness remained unabashed. It was in every line of his body from the folded arms and firmly-planted feet to the high-lifted head.

“Longswords,” Yanarion replied with a smug nod. “Hand and a half.”

Celerion wasn’t surprised. The longsword was easily Manilar’s best weapon, but if either Yanarion or Manilar thought it would aid Manilar’s chances, they were sorely mistaken. Though not his favorite – he much preferred the graceful curves and single edge of the Elhalan to the straight, double-edged blade – Celerion was quite comfortable with even the double-handed longswords. He accepted the boiled leather wrist guards and chest plate from Halasen and strapped them on himself. Then he took the wooden longsword, lighter than its metal counterpart, but still heavy. As Yanarion similarly outfitted his apprentice, Celerion stood in the center of the arena, waiting.

Had this been a training match, the men and women in the stands would have been cheering for their favorite opponent. Instead, the arena was eerily silent as Celerion and Manilar took up their starting positions. As they signaled their readiness, Celerion briefly wondered how long it would take to beat that arrogant smirk from his opponent’s face.

Not long. The smirk vanished in Celerion’s first attack. He drove Manilar steadily back, his body guided by instinct, not thought. Every movement was fluid and relaxed. His adversary’s attempts to defend himself felt slow and predictable, easily countered. By the time he decided to relent, Manilar was sweating from the effort. He stumbled and fell and Celerion frowned down at him.

“Get up,” he barked.

He was every bit as disappointed now as he had been after the drill this morning. Where was Manilar’s bragged-about prowess with a longsword? Where were the swift attacks and cunning evasions? Where was the brute strength Manilar claimed he had in greater abundance than Celerion? None of Manilar’s supposed skill was evident in the clumsy charge Celerion easily side-stepped or in the wild swing that was deftly knocked aside. His temper had cooled, leaving his mind empty of all but the fight. He was presented with numerous opportunities to injure the other Lord-heir and resisted, praying Manilar would regain his senses and give him a decent fight. More than revenge, he needed an outlet for his temper.

“Wake up!” Celerion snarled. “This is pathetic.”

He didn’t say it to goad Manilar into a self-important rage, but his words had exactly that effect. With a wordless bellow, the Lord-heir of Norn thrusted and slashed. Celerion knocked Manilar’s sword away again and again, irritated anew by how easily he overpowered the other man. Annoyed, he finally ducked inside Manilar’s reach and drove his shoulder into his rival’s chest. His opponent overbalanced, tripped and crashed into the ground.

Too late, he saw Manilar’s arm come up as he fell. Celerion couldn’t stop the momentum of his sword and watched in horror as it smashed into Manilar’s leather-encased forearm. Bone cracked. Manilar’s wail of surprise and pain resonated in the silent arena.

“Stop it, Celerion!” Yanarion bellowed. “Halasen, control him!”

There was no need for the order. Celerion had already backed away several paces. He stared at Manilar, who lay on the arena’s grassy floor, clutching his arm. When Yanarion gingerly removed the leather arm guard and peeled the tunic sleeve back, Manilar swore. Even from where he stood, Celerion saw the blooming vivid blue and violet bruise.

“Sweet Lady,” he breathed. Halasen came to stand beside him and he turned to his Master. “I didn’t mean for that to happen, Halasen.”

“I know, lad. Don’t worry yourself over it. Maybe he’ll think before he decides to taunt you next time.”

“It’s a lesson I’m sure he won’t soon forget,” Haleri agreed, joining them. He took Celerion’s sword and armor and handed it to a fellow Guardsman. “And one that’s been a long time coming.”

They directed him out of the arena and back toward the stables. Calel whinnied in greeting as Celerion neared and craned his head over the stall door. Celerion obliged and scratched along the stallion’s mane. The rope welts had gone down, but not vanished and he was reminded of why he’d challenged Manilar. Harassing him was one thing, but attacking his horse was beyond rivalry. It was, even according to the laws of the Weaponsmasters Convocation, punishable by a lashing and possible removal of Honors – which Manilar had not yet earned.

“Manilar will be lucky if he’s healed enough in time for the apprentice trials,” came Lady Sela’s voice. They all turned to see her striding toward them. “It’s a substantial break.”

“I didn’t want that,” Celerion told her.

“Of course you didn’t. Everyone knows that. I spoke with Master Yanarion regarding Manilar’s punishment. He feels that the challenge and subsequent injury is more than adequate for the offense.”

“Calel here I’m sure will disagree,” Halasen said, gently stroking the horse’s neck. “But I leave it to the Lady of the Moon to decide. I will not seek further discipline.”

Celerion caught Halasen’s meaning. If Manilar’s arm did not heal in time, he would miss the apprentice trials and be forced to Foster another year instead of competing in this year’s Weaponsmaster Trials. The title he’d been training a full decade to earn would be delayed.

“Celerion? Is the matter settled to your satisfaction?”

“Yes,” he lied. He wasn’t satisfied and anger still flickered through him, but he wasn’t like Manilar. He’d get over it before too long.

“Very well. I will be writing to both Lord Lenruth and Lord Nithran with the details,” Lady Sela remarked and excused herself. Celerion saw her smile as she turned away.

“I do believe the gracious Lady of Stormcove feels herself somewhat vindicated as well,” Halasen mused.

“It’s not as if Manilar has gone out of his way to show gratefulness for her hospitality,” Celerion remarked, feeling better already.

“I doubt he’ll be in the mood to be obnoxious for a while,” Haleri added. “He’s never fought so poorly. Celerion, my friend, I wish you could have watched the fight. Manilar was terrified of you.”

He didn’t want anyone to be afraid of him, not even Manilar, but if it were true, maybe he’d at last won some peace for himself. At what cost? he wondered as uneasiness settled over him. Manilar was not the type to take a beating and let it go. He may have been physically terrified of Celerion, but there were other ways to inflict revenge. Celerion hoped he hadn’t created an enemy that would harass him endlessly when they wore the Lord’s coronets of their Holdings.

“Sometimes I forget how young you still are, Celerion,” Haleri said. “Still in your aridhiara. An older, more cynical man would have reveled in a victory like that, but not you.”

“He’ll have centuries to be cynical,” came a new voice. “There is no need for him to be so now.”

Commander Gwarfiron joined them beside Calel’s stall and offered the horse an apple. For a while, the only noise was the stallion’s contented chomping and the stableboy’s quiet humming. Celerion stared with unfocused eyes past his horse, out the window beyond, not really seeing the crystal blue sky or the shimmering gold grasses. The sensible part of him knew he was a talented and capable fighter and that his many victories in training had come from his skill and not the lack of his opponents’. The other side – the part of him that had taken all the bitter, unfounded criticism too deeply to heart and believed he was as useless as his father so often said – refused to see it the same way. That part of him agreed with Manilar, that he was a lucky fraud. But luck had not gotten him through the ten Years of Weapons training in just seven. Luck alone had not delivered him through fourteen Apprentice Trials undefeated. It was an argument that illustrated the aridhiara, the Between Years, when a Vanoran was no longer a child and not yet an adult. The boy in him thought him incapable and weak. The man knew better.

“Stars help your father when the latter takes over,” Cuivien had said before he’d left for Stormcove.

“What can we look forward to for the afternoon drills, Commander?” Celerion asked, pulling his gaze back to his companions.

“I leave that up to Master Halasen,” the Commander replied. “I had planned a full day of tactics, but after Manilar’s poor performance this morning, I don’t have the heart for it.”

“Master Halasen?” Haleri asked expectantly.

Halasen’s gaze danced between Celerion and his kinsmen. “I think the other Masters would agree with me when I say our apprentices are still painfully inexperienced in making a war camp.”

“Only because they’ve haven’t yet been asked to do so,” Commander Gwarfiron remarked. “What do you say, Captain? Shall we take all the Guard Lady Sela can spare and go play some war games?”

Excitement pulsed through Celerion’s veins. A camping expedition with the Guard would be just the experience he’d been hoping for. As issues were ordered to pack and the stable and barracks echoed with creaking, banging, clopping and the din of voices threaded with anticipation, Celerion finally found himself at ease. Man and boy were in perfect agreement.